


Rosie's Parents

by Natalia_lives



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Memories, Rosie Growing Up, Rosie and her unusual parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 14:21:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16176863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natalia_lives/pseuds/Natalia_lives
Summary: Most people have two parents: a mother and a father. Some has maybe three or four. But a few has seven, like I have.---My name is Rosamund Mary Watson. I was born in 2015 in London. I’m twenty five years old, and I’m writing this because tomorrow I will leave the civil life and became an active member of MI6.





	Rosie's Parents

Rosie’s Parents

 

Most people have two parents: a mother and a father. Some has maybe three or four. But a few has seven, like I have.

My name is Rosamund Mary Watson. I was born in 2015 in London. I’m twenty five years old, and I’m writing this because tomorrow I will leave the civil life and became an active member of MI6. This writing will be closed with my other personal belonging in the Vault. I’m writing this because these people were those who defined me as I am now. I owe them this much.

 

* * *

 

My mother was Mary Elisabeth Morstan. Although as it turned out her real name was Rosamund Mary as well. I don’t really know much about her past. She was a highly trained assassin, who worked in a group of four, till one of their missions went wrong. She survived and restarted her life as a nurse. That’s how she met my father, who’s a doctor.  Then her past came back and hunted her. That’s what killed her when I was only a few months old.

Shot.

It was her choice.

She saved my uncle and godfather, Sherlock.

 

When I learned it, it was hard to accept at first. I was angry at her. She left me. Then I realised, that she knew that she leave me in good and capable people’s hands. That’s why I got 7 parents.

Some says I look very similar to her. Big eyes, toothy smile and a tendency to act quietly and discretely.

The others talk with respect about her and not just because of me. It’s honest, I can tell.

It pains me to say, but there’s not much I can write about her. I know that other’s who lost their parents, they image them and talk to them as a solution, but I never really did that. I had other mothers.

To her, I attach a picture which was taken when they brought me home. _Taken in 2015, by Mrs H._

 

* * *

 

 

My father is John Hamish Watson, an ex army doctor, now having his own praxis. He came from a middle class family and has a sister Harry. We speak in every two or three years. They fall apart early on.  After he finished medical school he enlisted to the army and was deployed to Afghanistan in the early two thousands. He served there for three years till he got shot in the shoulder and was discharged. While he was looking for a flat, he met Sherlock. They became flatmates and had a very adventures life. (Sherlock being the only consultant detective.) They still do that, up to this date. They just simply good at it.

I could write books about him and his stories. But this writing has a different aim. I will write one, defying memory to each ne them, and what value have I learned from that.

From him, I learned to always stood up for myself and never compromise myself.

It happened in my early high school years, some of my classmates did something blameworthy and they wanted us, who had nothing to do with it, that we were part of it as well. At first I was a bit lost what to do, thanks to growing up around the law; I had pretty clear concepts about good and bad. But having that pressure on me at first I did as they told, said nothing. But when it came to lying, I broke down. Didn’t know, what to do. Dad saw me, probably realised early on but waited with his intervention. We sat down and I told him the whole story. He listened calmly. Then he put his hand on my hand and squeezed it gently.

“Rosie, never let anybody or anything compromise you and your values. Ever. And that’s what it counts.” He smile was warm but firm. I just nod back. He stud up and kissed my forehead.

That advice became a guideline to me since. That and how can you be strong and soft at the same time.

 

* * *

 

 

Molly Hooper. My younger godmother. She’s a pathologist. Sadly she’s never got married, had a few nice boyfriends though. On the other hand she was always part of our patched up family. That’s how she became my godmother. Maybe she couldn’t help me much with femininity, but she taught me love and forgiving. 

I had a boyfriend.  He was intelligent, nice and even looked good. But as it happens he did something that hurt me. Sherlock even put special effort not to say anything more hurtful, but probably completely true, about it and Dad was helpless as well. Thankfully Molly turned up. She was just there for me and it helped.

One night we were talking she told me:

“Sweety, it happens. People who are close to us make something hurtful.” She made a meaningful smile while closed her eyes for a longer moment. I guess she lived though a few situations like this. “But if they over all worth you can’t just throw them out after one bad move.” She giggled then carried on seriously. “If they worth, forgive them and keep on loving them. We all do bad things time to time…” And in true Molly fashion pulled me into a hug. And she was right. There are people worth forgiving. Actually I forgave him shortly after; we didn’t work out, but stayed good friends  

 

* * *

 

 

Mrs. Hudson. She is my other godmother. Like every one of them in this list, she has an unusual life. Her husband ran a drug cartel where she was bookkeeping (and exotic dancing, according to Sherlock), but after he got executed, she came back. She is the landlady of 221 Baker Street. The landlady, not the housekeeper! (But actually, she is…)

She taught me to have compassion and patience. 

I was twelve years old, started to get the usual teenager allures. Dad had a lot of work at the time; he was writing for a paper, had his praxis and was running wild with Sherlock.  I was dropped off in Baker Street and they just disappeared. Anyway I was about to have a tantrum, for no good reason at all, because which twelve years old want to sit all night with his dad?! Then Mrs H just felt, that her calming presence was needed and just of the blue appeared.  She made my favourite tee and brought some cookies and ice-cream up. She brought up some trivial topic and then we talk through the whole night without mentioning my bad mood earlier. After we called it a night and she went down, she hugged me and quietly told me: “It’s all right Sweety. We all get bad mood swings, but with patience you can cure everything.” She kissed me on the forehead and winked.

She’s living under one roof with Sherlock for decades now, she the Saint of Patience.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock Holmes. He is my godfather. And the one who pulled all these people together. He invented his own job, consulting detective and his damned good at it! He never got married, and as everybody on this list knows, there was The Woman as The Love Interest. But that happened before me. He is not the most socially apt person and gives little respect some of the social norms, but at the end he wants to help for those who need it.

I guess it’s obvious what he taught me: pay attention to every little detail.

I was in the 11th grade when we had to write an essay for literature. Usually I like literature but this book was my enemy and the viewpoints were just stupid. I was sitting in our living room, trying to write something. Sherlock in his usual style appeared.  Came in, hanged his coat, said “Hi Rosie.” then went to the kitchen and was looking for food. After some time he came to the living room and sat down.

“What are you working on?” His voice was even somewhat curious.

“Essay for literature.  And I hate it.” My voice was filled with dramatic pain.

Sherlock drew one of his eyebrows up and picked up the book in question from the table. He looked into it, read a bit here and there. Twenty minutes or so went by. He stood up abruptly. “Please tell John the evening is off.” With that he was already putting on his coat, still clutching my book. “Ohh, and tell him, he needs more sleep.” He winked and with that he was gone. I had to roll my eyes. But I was grateful, because he saved me for the evening from that book.

The next evening, I was up in my room when there was a knock on my door. It was Sherlock. He was wearing one of his smug smiles. “Want some help with this?” Holding the book up. “Yess!”

He came in and picked up his usual ‘teaching pose’. “The book is stupid as it is. We agree on this, I suppose.” I just nodded. This going to be good… “But I presume you flew over the small details.” He looked at me slightly accusingly. Helplessly I just sat there. And then he started to analyse, retell me he story from point of views, point out all the small details. It was fascinating.

We had a fun night together and that essay became my best ever.

And of course that was just one example; he does this all the time… Sometimes, it’s too much to be honest…

ps.: it wasn’t lipstick mark on my collar!

 

* * *

 

DI Gregory Lestrade. He could have made it higher easier, despite what Sherlock says about his competent, he is one of the best police officers, but he loves the life on the street. He was married once, but his wife cheated on her and they got divorced. It’s sad, he really is a nice guy, but lost in his job.

From him I learned that sometimes asking questions is better than just deducing the outcome. 

I don’t really remembered how it happened, but he was available to pick me up from school. So naturally he picked me up but still had some job, so for like two hour we went back to his office at the NSY. I liked that place and was there quite a few times. But the difference this time was that I thought I help myself and pick something from one of the officers table. It was a small Kinder Surprise plastic figure. As far as I knew, that person didn’t have kids or anything and I really wanted that figure. So after the ‘act’ I was reading, playing in Greg’s office, he was walking in and out, I was mostly alone.

“Rosie?” I looked up; he was standing in front of me. “Yes?”He sat down next to me in the sofa. “Rosie, is that Officer Tim’s figure?”  His voice was kind, but there was some firmness in it. I just blinked at him with big eyes. He caressed my head. “Rosie, it’s not all right, and I know you know. You are smarter than that.” He knew that the “we are in a police station blablabla” wouldn’t work on me. “I think if you go to him, and tell him what happened, apologies and ask if it would be all right, would be the best. And if he says no, you have to accept it.” He winked at me and with his eyes, pointed to the door.  Thankfully Officer Tim was nice and he accepted my apology. I remember running back to Greg’s office and hugging him.

And yes, sometimes asking a few simple questions can take you further than over thinking.

 

* * *

 

 

Anthia or ‘Thia.  She Is Mycroft’s PA. I can really write a lot about her, not that I know a lot. Does anybody?! She came forward as I grew older. She did this, like everything else quietly. Actually she reminds me a cat. A very elegant, carful, quiet cat with big watching eyes.

She was the one who guided me into the very complicated world of fashion and womanhood.  I presume this is something you normally learn from your mother…

 

Actually I am thankful, because I always had some intuition how to dress or what looks good on me. But that is something we need some guidance. At the University there was this ball. It was big, it was important and I wanted to look good. Who doesn’t? And as the night of the ball came closer I grew more and more desperate. A week before it, I called her up.

“Rosie, what can I do for you?” Her voice was pleasant as ever.

“’Thia, I need your help?” Mine was desperate.

“What can I do for you?”

“We’ll have this ball in a week, at the university, and I have absolutely no idea what to wear, how to look and I’m close giving up on it!”

“You free at the moment?” I guess she dealt with more pressing matters, so her calmness wasn’t that all surprising.

“I am. I’m home actually.”

“Good, I’ll be there shortly.”

Actually she turned up in like 10 minutes. She didn’t tell me what to wear; she helped me with the choices, told me which the little steps are.

She told me that there is a general rule: sometimes less is more. She was right. I wore a simple black dress with a simple but elegant makeup and hair do. I felt myself really good throughout the evening.

Ever since I keep myself to that, to be simple but elegant.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft Homes. The end of the line. He is Sherlock’s older brother and the British government himself. He never got married ever and I’m not even sure if he ever had A Woman… Who knows? In his distinct style he was always there, but never at the front. Ohh and he hated when I was painting or playing with clay or with anything that could destroy his immaculate suits. Now that was fun!

It’s hard for me to write about him. Is he a member of family, a distant uncle, my mentor?! All of this I guess.

For him, I’m going to write how he recruited me.

There was still one year from my university course when he ‘asked’ for me. Meaning: one late afternoon a big black car stopped in front of our house, a black suited guy knocked and kindly asked me to let him take me to Mycroft. Could I say no?! No…

So I was taken to his underground office. 

“Rosamund” Mycroft started after a few minutes of silently observing me. “I wanted to ask if you’d like to join the MI6?” His voice was simple. I didn’t really know at the time what to answer to that.  “You study political sciences as a major and engineering as a minor.” While saying ‘engineering’ he drew up his eyebrows. “You grow up in unusual surrounding. You are intelligent and observing. I think you have it in you.” 

Looking back, he was probably planning this for some time now and I’m sure I was the first one he presented. It was him, honest.

“Well, this is not exactly I can answer right now.” I tried to choose my word carefully. “I need some time to think. “ He nodded. “Understandable. In two weeks we’ll talk again.”

It wasn’t something I could ask about Dad or Sherlock, they have a very emotional response to anything that comes from Mycroft. Very emotional….

“Hello? Rose?” “Hi Anthea.” “Rose, I know why do you call, but I can’t help you.” Her voice was calm. “But If there is one thing I can tell you, is that even if you decline the offer, he will still love you as always.”   “Ohhh” “It’s all right. Good night Rose!”  “Thank you! ‘Nnight.”

….

Two weeks later I sat there again in his office. I decided. It wasn’t easy. I had to think through everything and I got to the sad conclusion. Is this my aim? Was I born to be another one in the line? Will I just became a pawn in Mycroft’s game? ….

I just sat there and waited for Mycroft to finish signing the papers.  He finished, we stud up. He stepped closer to me and we shook hands.

_“Welcome.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


End file.
